The Shire Has Been Saved
by Symphonic Silence
Summary: The words kept repeating in his head and yet, everywhere he looked, the ghosts of the past would whisper otherwise.


_The Shire has been saved._

The words repeat through his mind as he walks through a path in the midst of a golden field, the stems rippling in the light wind and pointing him in the direction he should go next. He lifts his hand from his side and brushes it through the stalks of wheat, feeling them gently dance against the skin of his palm as his bare feet take him down a ruggedly-hewn stone path. The sun is lowering in the sky but it's still unseasonably warm and he tugs at his collar a bit with his free hand.

A flash of his old daring nature struck him and, glancing over his shoulder only once, he broke off the path. Using his hands to separate the stalks, he took a brave step forward. He was surprised by the unforgiving wheat, by its unwillingness to bend when it had been flattened by the wind only moments before, but he still tried to press through. The struggle between him and the stalks became very real as his progress increased: his strength wasn't what it used to be and with every few steps forward he found himself stumbling back a pace, shoved by a force he couldn't see, by a force he'd never been able to see. Still, to defy whatever it could have been, he pressed forward, urged on by both his defiance and a sense of panic that he couldn't understand and didn't want to.

The gold slowly seemed to fade, seemed to twist into a sickly brown that whispered of decay and disease. The wind changed and now the stalks bent in on him, slashing at him from all sides, striking him with such force that it made Frodo gasp. He threw one hand over his head and the other, from an instinct long useless, reached for the hilt of a blade he no longer carried.

Wind, howling, seemed to laugh through the rushes and the sound surrounded him and pinned him in from every angle. Not knowing what else to do, he lowered his head and charged, not heeding his direction any longer, not caring where he ended up as long as it wasn't here. Sprinting, he didn't stop until the lashes of torment finally ceased and he was able to lower his defenses.

Hands now on his knees, he sucked in air as fast as he could. Lungs burned, screamed, felt like they weren't filling as fast as they needed to. He absently noted that his shoulder was aching, but he grit his teeth and made himself stand upright.

He was glad he did.

The sight he'd been longing to see was stretched before him now: a field of flowers, of blue, yellow, red, orange, and every other color besides. It was a calming blanket across the ground, covering the scars of the past in the most beautiful fashion imaginable.

He inhaled again, deeply savoring the scent of fresh greenery until his body begged for him to release the breath. He followed its orders and then took a seat at the edge of the wheat field so he could calm his mind and, hopefully, heal his spirit.

But the sun was dropping beyond the hills, its orange rays rapidly darkening to crimson.

_The Shire has been saved._

That's what they said, but now the field was on fire and half-orcs were mindlessly stomping around the flames, crushing the few buds that had managed to escape The White Hand's ire. The Shire was saved, but he could see the ruffians dragging a woman around by her hair and she was screaming and pleading for them to let her go. Guttural laughs that spoke of years of twisted torment pierced the night air more than her screams, and soon she was dragged well beyond Frodo's sight.

He ducked down when another orc walked past, tugging at the chains of a young man, proud and defiant, behind him. Frodo couldn't tell what the hobbit had been saying but suddenly he lunged at his captor. The attempt proved to be in vain: effortlessly the orc dodged him and spun on his feet, pulling a sword from the sheath on his back and flicking it across the boy's belly. Though he couldn't see it, Frodo knew orcs well enough to know that the thing was smiling, probably licking the blood on the blade and relishing the spasm of pain flittering across his prisoner's face. The chained boy started to sink to his knees but the orc pulled him up by his shirt and shoved him backwards into the flames.

Frodo bit back a shout and clambered backwards, scrambling to the edge of the wheat field before shooting up to his feet. Jamming his eyes shut, he reached for the chain that was around his neck and froze in panic when he grasped at naught but his collarbone. Cold, liquid terror seeped through his blood when he realized the ring was gone and he was exposed, so exposed, and he had no way to hide and _his precious was gone._

But the Shire had been saved he told himself, and not for the first time. He dared to open his eyes and was met with an odd mix of relief and despair when he saw the fires had been long extinguished, the orcs gone, and the blood-red field of flowers was glinting merrily in the crimson sun.

Feeling cold and nauseated, Frodo turned around to retrace his steps home but then quickly rerouted, going the long way around the wheat field until he finally stumbled on the flagstone path he'd been on to begin with. Heart heavy by things both seen and unseen, he made his way back into town, not looking up until he was at the tavern.

Padded feet, ones that had exponentially more practice than others, stealthily made their way inside, taking him to the furthest, darkest corner all on their own. There he sat, quietly observing the room until a face he recognized but couldn't name came to take his order. Knowing that it would be odd to be here without a drink, knowing that he couldn't explain his odd desire to be near people without interacting with them, and knowing that these folk frowned on his type of odd, he ordered a mug of ale that he knew he wouldn't touch. He even managed a smile, too, though he wasn't sure if he'd done it right. Regardless, she disappeared and returned swiftly, mug in hand, and he thanked her with a small nod before settling back in his seat.

He tried to remember the last time he enjoyed himself in a pub, even if only somewhat. With some effort he could remember that he'd been posing as Mister Underhill then, waiting for Gandalf to come, and Frodo had what he believed to be the weight of the world in his pocket – a weight that he hadn't even understood at that time, but the gravity of their situation managed to make it much heavier later.

Then he had waited for his journey to start while talking and drinking with friends at his side. Now he waited for the same thing, though pointedly alone. Not, he amended, that they weren't his friends now. It was…things were different now.

_The Shire has been saved._

He sighed and looked at the faces all around him, the familiar faces that seemed to smile and laugh until they saw Frodo. They'd freeze then, unsure what to do when faced with this _stranger _that hid in skin so like theirs: the hobbit that never seemed like a hobbit, especially once he returned from wherever he had gone. The brightness and cheerfulness and friendliness and ignorance that made hobbits so beautiful had been lost for Frodo, and he very much felt like the dark spot on the sun – the spot that denied warmth to those who would seek it.

Not that any sought him, of course.

His heart sank further at the thought of his friends. Merry and Pippin were the Shire's saviors, heroes, leaders great and fair. They were busy with their own lives and affairs now and Frodo, though happy for their success, felt too guilty to bother them. They may have seen much in their journeys, but the blackness of Mordor hadn't swallowed them and left them to rot in its darkness.

Sam, faithful Sam, had been there for a time but Frodo had never expected him to be there forever. He, too, had his own life, his own wife and children, and Frodo was just a reminder of times that had brought nothing but pain and grief and sadness to all the world, including them. Indeed, Frodo was a reminder of times best left forgotten and that was plain to see in the way Sam's face creased in thought every time the two crossed paths.

Eyes, shadowed and heavy, considered the hobbits all around him, the ones that didn't want to know what had nearly happened to the world, the ones who didn't ask what his role had been in it all, the ones who didn't care what had been sacrificed to save them. He could talk to no one about the troubles in his heart, the burdens of his soul, the sting in his shoulder, or the darkness that threatened to eat him alive. He was very much alone, and faithful Sam didn't deserve to be dragged down by what was now happening.

Determining that it was best to leave, he drank some of the ale in his mug to keep everyone happy and then made to stand.

As he did, the world turned.

Uruks sat in the corner with a checkers table in their midst, arguing over the last drop of grog in the pitcher and who was going to get more.

The table of gamblers playing cards were orcs, pointing at the one who had kept winning, accusing him of cheating while fingering the daggers at their sides and preparing to lunge.

The waitress that was coming near smiled and it was full of black, sharpened teeth, her eyes gleaming hungrily for a meal—

_The Shire has been saved._

Frodo's eyes darted downward and passed her some coin, mumbling a thank-you before running out the door. All eyes were on his back but he didn't stop running. Not until he was home.

Once inside Bag's End he turned on his heels and locked the door, pressing his forehead against the wood and trying to calm himself with great, shaking breaths. He knew the images were false, knew, without a doubt, that they were increasing in frequency, and he knew that they'd never stop.

His breath hitched on its release but he knew he needed to be stronger than that. Like a rod he straightened, and that action alone instilled in him a strength he hadn't known he carried since he fought, at the peak of his exhaustion, for control of The Ring within Mount Doom. This task that he was about to do, in a lot of ways, would be like that – the final moments before an undeniable end.

Long steps took him to his desk – to Bilbo's desk – and he grabbed his quill. It hovered over the Red Book for half a moment before that was pushed aside and fresh parchment replaced it.

Words bled onto the blank page from the sharpened edge of the quill; words that he'd wanted to speak for so long but hadn't had an opportunity to do so. Words that spoke of the grief in his heart, of the troubles and the taint, of the pull that the Black Land still had over him. He wrote of all the things that happened today, wrote about how the innocent smile of a boy had made him weep because it reminded him of Sméagol, of what he himself used to be before The Ring had happened upon them both.

He wrote about how everyone had moved on, how he still was waiting for the Shire to be saved and how, most of all, it hadn't been saved because _he _hadn't been, either.

At that he paused with his quill raised above the parchment and he read over his words with tears threatening to spill out from over his eyes. Deliberately he took in every sentence, feeling their meaning wash over him, the condemnation, the fear. He let it all hit him like a wave, again and again, until he felt like he could take no more.

And then, once finished, he carefully folded the papers, sealed them, and threw them into his fire to watch it burn - just like Gandalf had thrown The Ring in, to seal the fate of Frodo as ringbearer once ancient and tainted words spread across its golden surface like a spider's web.

The ashes floated through the air, sputtering to their death once they circled Frodo's shoulders. Eyes, fair and burning, watched until all traces of what had transpired were gone, until even the logs of the blaze had turned into embers. Slowly the room plunged to darkness, and only once it was pure black did Frodo stir again.

He rubbed at his eyes and, with a lingering look at the simmering coals, plodded off to bed, settling under the covers and jamming his eyes shut to hide himself from the gleaming gaze of those long since dead: the gaze of wraiths, of orcs, Saruman, Boromir, Sméagol…

They hadn't been saved, so why ever did he expect himself to be?

* * *

On the shores, so near to where the others had already entered the boat, Frodo stood with his eyes fixed on a point nobody could see. Only vacantly could he hear the question of "why?" being pressed.

_Why leave? Why leave us? Why didn't you tell us? Why have you known and yet never said a word?_

Frodo looked to the boats, to the elves, to the sails that promised to take him to a future that he didn't fully understand but looked forward to learning about. He licked his lips and tasted salt there, though if it was from the sea or his own tears he couldn't say.

When he turned to look at Sam, whose face was ruddy and broken, Frodo's eyes inadvertently slid from his greatest friend and ally to the Shire that burned silently in the distance. "We set out to save the Shire, Sam, and it has been saved."

He saw the army of orcs marching towards town with shields raised and swords clanging against them, heard their twisted songs of future victories ringing in his ears. He saw Gollum watching the orcs pass from bushes across the road, his fingers peeling back the shrubs as he observed the soldiers first. Slowly, giant, curious eyes swiveled to him and pinned Frodo in place, grinning at him like Sméagol would, right before Boromir erupted from a bend in the path with an upraised sword.

Frodo stepped backwards towards the boat, blinked, and all was gone except for the shining faces of the hobbits before him and the ache in his shoulder. His eyes again searched for Hobbiton and found that it was safely nestled in the hills, far from where he was. "The Shire has been saved," he repeated in little more than a whisper, one that was weighted with loss and grief, "but not for me."

The ache in his shoulder spread to his heart.


End file.
